


feu et glace.

by jessng



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Cheating, Feels, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Daddy Kink, Implied/Referenced Psychological/Emotional Abuse, M/M, Sexual Tension, die in feels hoes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-10 06:13:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11121519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessng/pseuds/jessng
Summary: They both want him,just in different ways —he with touches of fire,and a heart of ice.





	feu et glace.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queencrank](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queencrank/gifts).



> [my ho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queencrank/pseuds/queencrank)'s birthday gift. happy birthday hun ilu good luck on whatever test it is ur having and no i'm not cheating on u with dumbo stuffed toy (also yes i wrote this while hugging said dumbo stuffed toy)

To Ralph, he is fire.

Red and hot, ignited by pure physical desires, the longing of marks on bodies and scorching breaths on glowing skin. He is raw and passionate, burning bright and giving off comforting heat if Ralph stays far away enough.

Ralph isn't far away though. He is close, standing directly on top of the inextinguishable flame. Ralph lets it engulf his entire being, unconscious of the consequences — the burns that dust his skin with red and the black ashes that the flame has swept away with itself, ever so tentatively despite the roughness of it all. He loses himself in the heat of their moments, as skin melt into skin, morphing into breathless moans of their names that bounce around the oftentimes pitch black rooms.

Every time, Ralph's eagerness takes a different shape, and every time, he patiently waits for his lover to come back. The moment the door opens is the moment all desires are set ablaze, when he remembers all his cravings for skin-against-skin contact, when the heat rushes inside. Most of the time, though, Ralph waits. The temptation is there, hanging above his head like a piñata, lowering slowly as the heat moves closer. And Ralph waits, wanton eyes carrying an uncontainable yearning, the spark of lust that will soon become an explosion.

Ralph believes that his lover has a life outside of him. They are not official, and that outside life is probably why. The apartment is cold without the fervency of his fire, but he comes along often enough, at seven in the evening, leaving around ten in the morning, sometimes earlier. "I have work," he says. and Ralph knows it's true, for he is clad in some of the most exquisite suits, for his hair is always groomed to perfection despite being curly, for his manners belong to a man of business, who can't be seen without his work.

Only in bed, around Ralph, does he allow himself to be a mess. Ralph appreciates it, how much they can let themselves loose near each other. 

But then, there are the times when the apartment is constantly cold, when it is devoid of all sounds, and when Ralph is left completely alone, unsatisfied. Ralph guesses the abandonment is one of his punishments, saved especially for the times when Ralph decides not to obey. The fire he has been playing with is exceptional at the waiting game, and Ralph is a little less patient. His yearning for the heat increases the more he is left in the cold, like a hiker on a snow mountain. And when his foggy breaths cloud before his eyes, blinding and forbidding him from clear decisions, he will pick up the phone. His fingers will glide across the screen, pressing on each number as his heartbeats accelerate, sweat slicking his palms just from the excitement alone. 

The phone will ring then, and each vibration will cause Ralph's breath to hitch in a different way. He will tug at the hem of his pants, itching for them to be taken off by another set of hands. He will swallow when the other side picks up, teeth sinking into his lower lip when the gravelly voice answers. There will be dubious noises in the background, but Ralph won't care. He will moan into the phone, "Daddy, I need you," hushed but needy voice demanding complete attention. The room will heat up once again, because they will, by then, have imagined being against each other, bodies intertwined, nails clawing on each other's skin, leaving behind proud red marks like the fire they share. 

The day after that, Ralph's apartment will be an inferno. In those moments, when his eyes alone burn Ralph's skin, there are no modesty — no teasing bites and tentative simmers of lust. They are two sufferers of a perpetual hunger, one that can only be helped by the sweat that rolls down their arched backs and luscious moans and grunts that escape them through hot puffs of air, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh and the throwing back of Ralph's head after a particular rush of euphoria. Soon, they see sparks flying up in the dark room. Climax booms like the fireworks on New Year's Eve, sending electricity up to the tips of their fingers and toes, leaving the both of them breathless, hearts beating wild, still deep in the void of intoxication.

As they recover, leaving behind their afterglow, Ralph, once again, thinks about his lover's life. In him, Ralph can sense some kind of desperation, a desire, almost akin to a necessity, to fulfill his physical longings, as if he has been deprived of it for too long. Maybe that is what has lead to the first time they meet — at the club in which Ralph is the bartender — where, in those cold blue eyes, there has been a fire that reduces the world to mere ash. Ralph wonders how that is. Can it be his social status, or—

Jack pulls him away in the midst of his thoughts, melting him with every touch. Willingly, Ralph abandons all reasons, and jumps into the pool of heat that will surely scorch him to his death.

 

 

* * *

 

 

To Roger, he was ice. 

A sea of glaciers, cold, harsh, refreshing at the first touches only to hurt after a few moments. The pain stung worse than the freezer burn when he ripped his tongue out of the stop sign post, and ached harder than the consequences of giving too much.

But Roger was ice as well, in the way that his touches were too cold to warm anything up. They didn't crave the same thing, and maybe, Roger thought, that was why nothing could exist between them beside friendship, maybe that's how it was meant to be, and maybe Roger was stupid for trying to change it.

Could he say that he tried? 

What was he trying for when he couldn't offer up just a spark? Why did he try to pursue something he couldn't keep? Trying to label something as love because it saved him from his emptiness, was it worth it? Roger didn't know. He didn't know the answer to all of these questions, and the many more that kept appearing in his head, like the mystery of the wet pillow when he woke up and the reason why the left side of the bed was vacant every morning. 

Roger thought it bothersome that mankind felt love, that they just _had to_ want to mean something to someone. He found reality monotonous and routine, a desperate chain of giving and receiving, all thanks to the tragic feeling of love, a chain in which Roger couldn't continue, because the man he loved desired something he didn't have the capability to give, the sacredness that he was taught to keep and wasn't planning on offering up to anyone. 

But love was never the docile one. It was cunning and despicable, twisting the strings in Roger until he gave in, longing too much to be important to a certain person. He agreed to give something he coudn't, agreed for his body to be ripped in half, for something to plunge deep into him and, in the aftermath, leave him a bleeding mess, panting and disgusting himself. He had gripped the sheets hard through it all, tried his best not to scream out loud, not to show that he didn't like whatever it was they were doing.

All just to stay important to one person. 

Roger thought it was over after the first time, that lust only occurred once. He didn't want to do it, and it was human nature to not want to get hurt. But humans were also afraid of isolation, and Roger didn't want to be called selfish again. 

"Do you even love me?" He was asked, one day, to which he frantically nodded, afraid that he would be left alone. He offered up his body a second, a third, a fourth time, and each of them hurt the same. Each of them sickened him equally. Each of them killed him a bit on the inside, but he kept at it, spreading his legs and faking moans of pleasure to hide away his painful whimpers, learning to reciprocate so he didn't have to hear about being useless, until all he could hear were praises.

And yet, the house was still empty. The left side of the bed was still devoid of body heat. And Roger still woke up with tear-stained cheeks. 

There were times when he was home, although it seemed to have become less of a home, and more of a stop, with Roger's body the only anchor holding him back. During these times, the thrusts into his body were hard and relentless, not stopping even when he begged, as if there were some unresolved tension that couldn't be communicated through words.

On some of those occasions, there would be an abrupt phone call. Their endeavors continued as the call was being taken, and soon, Roger would feel heat rising in the room and hands gripping tighter on his hips. He would hide his face in the sheets, because someone else more worthy would be taking his position. It would almost seem like the room was an inferno, but Roger would have been frozen to death. Praises that weren't for him would muffle all sounds and pour into his ears, smooth like honey but still ragged and breathless from their current labor. Roger would open his mouth then, letting out small cries of pain because no one would have heard him at that point. 

He wished the pain was only physical.

When Roger could muster up the strength to leave the bathroom, all the lights were already off. The bed didn't look empty for once, and the slumbering pile of rage and exhaustion brought a tiny grin to his face. Roger brushed off a loose strand of red hair and placed a light kiss where it had been. Pulling away, he marveled at the moon-lit face of the man he loved, laying his eyes on the scattering freckles, and the permanent scowl that reminded him he was never enough. The corners of his mouth trembled, like they were too weak to keep a grin up. The man before him blurred away, and Roger's knees collapsed on the floor, no longer able to support him.

"I'm sorry," was all he could mutter, staring at the sleeping form in front of him. His teeth clenched tight, but the droplets of water still rolled out of his eyes. He knelt by the bed, his hand tentatively touching the damp corner of his eye. The drops fell to the floor, as rapid as the pouring rain outside. He wiped them away, and despite that, they kept appearing. Apologies formed on his quivering lips, hushing up bit by bit, fading away and falling apart like the rest of him. His nails dug into the flesh of his palms, pressing harder when he stood up and rubbed the rest of the water off his face. 

Roger bit his lips when he climbed into their shared bed, and flinched just a bit when he felt limbs draping over his body. A small smile barely made the corners of his mouth at the chaste way they touched. And Roger was happy.

He was happy, despite the stream of water that flowed from his eyes down to the pillow, despite the shivering shoulders that he tried to keep still.

And then, Jack whispered in his ears the name of a stranger.


End file.
